Mary's Hair
by Tim Haut

Her sister,
Laying plates in their places
And straightening the napkins once more
Did not notice at first--
Nor did her brother,
Still wide-eyed, fresh from the tomb,
Sipping wine
That had never tasted so sweet.
They did not notice
As Mary
Stepped through the door
Letting down her long, black hair,
Shaking it free
For a tender, ardent, holy oblation.
She had seen his road-weary feet,
Noticed the scars, the scratches,
And knelt, lifting a heel in her palm,
Spilling precious oil,
Spilling her heart,
Spilling love itself
Until its fragrance filled the room.
Her eyes filled with tears.
As somewhere outside,
A dog barked,
And a hammer rang against wood.

(Comments to Tim at timothyhaut@yahoo.com.)